


To Grow in Blood and Blue

by EssayOfThoughts



Series: Could Frame Thy Fearful Symmetry (MCU Maximoff/HP Crossover) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Codependency, Gen, Going to Hogwarts, Grief/Mourning, house sorting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:29:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7151246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/pseuds/EssayOfThoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We are orphans,” she says, pushing herself up. Behind her the bed she was supposed to have slept on is untouched, immaculate. She thinks: <i>Even if they put us in separate rooms we will find each other.</i> She thinks: <i>Our magic will break down walls for each other now.</i> She thinks: <i>We are all that we have left.</i></p><p>Wanda sees how every thought registers in her brother’s mind.</p><p>“Three years,” Pietro says. “Three years until Hogwarts.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Grow in Blood and Blue

Pietro does not sleep, their first night in the orphanage. He cannot make himself, even exhausted as he is, even as his ribs heal from the cracks put in them from the weight of the beam across his back, even as he breathes fresh air.

He tilts his head back against the wall and feels out the stream of magic pouring out of the back of his skull, linking his mind to Wanda's.

Magic made them. Magic changed them. Wanda’s cheeks are tearstained where they’re pressed to his chest, and she did not have to tell him for him to know: she saw their parents killed. 

(“Green light,” she murmured to him, shaking in his arms beneath the rubble of Potages. “And blood on Dad.”)

There was dark around them in the rubble, dark enough the light was blinding when they were pulled out, dark enough that Pietro could close his eyes and try to pretend the weight on his back, crushing his ribs piece by piece, was just a particularly heavy duvet. 

_ I will not let Wanda be crushed _ .

He could feel Wanda’s magic humming against her skin, the same way it had when they watched Quidditch, or when she saw Bowtruckles in the tree Pietro was climbing. Excitement or anger or exhilaration or shaking fear.

Pietro had tucked himself around Wanda, held her securely in the space he could make for them beneath all the rubble as they waited for people to get them out.

Pietro’s hand strokes over Wanda’s hair, still shaking.  _ Orphans now _ . He searches out the stream of magic pouring from his mind to Wanda’s, the blue of his eyes, the scarlet of the sparks Wanda made, linking them.

He wonders what made it, or if it has always been there.

  


* * *

  


When Wanda wakes Pietro’s ribs are almost healed. The potions the Healer had given him when they had been taken out had soothed his pain, the spell had made sure his ribs were set, the cream had healed the bruises. 

Pietro is still awake, his hands stroking gently over her hair. 

“We are orphans,” she says, pushing herself up. Behind her the bed she was supposed to have slept on is untouched, immaculate. She thinks:  _ Even if they put us in separate rooms we will find each other _ . She thinks:  _ Our magic will break down walls for each other now. _ She thinks:  _ We are all that we have left _ .

Wanda sees how every thought registers in her brother’s mind.

“Three years,” Pietro says. “Three years until Hogwarts.”

“It was supposed to be  _ over _ ,” Wanda says. “Mama said.”

_ Mama is dead _ , Wanda thinks.  _ Dad is dead _ , Wanda thinks.  _ We are all we have left _ , Wanda thinks.

Pietro’s words are as binding as a Vow. “I will not leave you.”

  


* * *

  


The other children at the orphanage think them odd. Most of them are much older, orphans made by the war that is supposed to be over. Some few are their age or younger, muggle-borns whose magic led to them being abandoned, whose magic set fires and burned down their homes leaving them untouched, muggle-borns who had no family left.

Wanda and Pietro have no one but each other.

  


* * *

  


The first time the adults try to put them in different rooms they both wake screaming with nightmares. Magic and instinct guide them through the building, unlock doors that shouldn’t unlock until they’re tucked against each other in a windowseat halfway down a corridor. They shiver with cold, but do not part.

  


* * *

  


The second time the adults try to part them Pietro does not sleep. Wanda has a nightmare. Wanda’s screaming wakes the building and she does not calm until she sees Pietro through the doorway. It is almost like Apparition, how quickly Pietro is at her side after that.

The lullaby Pietro hums is old, old and much confused, but Wanda half-hums it back and they fall asleep like that, arms wrapped around each other, Pietro’s cheek resting atop Wanda’s head, dark curls intertwining with dark curls. 

They are eight years old. They have no one but each other.

  


* * *

  


(Later, later they will consider vengeance for what was done to them, for the loss of their parents, for being trapped in rubble. Vengeance against Greyback and the masked ones, wild-snarling and free-casting, creating chaos and destruction and killing their parents. Later, though. For those first few days, weeks, months, they adjust to having only each other.)

  


* * *

  


When Wanda is irritated scarlet flashes in her eyes, from her fingertips. Sometimes the other children notice, run to the adults and tell. When Pietro is worried he shakes so hard he is almost a blur. When the other children see that they go to tell the Healers. 

The Healers can’t find anything wrong with either of them - Wanda’s expression of magic (growing increasingly more controlled, though still scarlet) and Pietro’s blurring energy are only attributed to the loss of their parents, the trauma of being trapped.

“Other children, those from the war,” the Healers say, “Can do similar things. Trauma does strange things to magic, makes it express in interesting ways. Some go mad. Some do,” a single handwave, gesturing to Pietro’s shaking hands, Wanda’s sparking eyes, “this.”

Wanda practices directing the scarlet of her magic with far more focus after that. Pietro finds his blurring energy, binds it close to him, binds it into his bones and blood and body until he feels like a coiled spring, and his every movement takes less than moments. 

(He will be fast enough to get Wanda  _ out _ the next time they are threatened, not to get her to a place they might survive but to take her to  _ safety _ .)

  


* * *

  


“Trauma,” Wanda says one day, her scarlet magic coiling over her hands like wisps of the galaxies the older children show them through their telescopes. “It does strange things to magic.”

No one else can do what they can. There’s Benjamin who can jump onto rooftops with a single bounce, and Claire who can always find what people are looking for. There’s Mattie who can (and does) change how they look every single moment - metamorphmagism gone miles beyond even their shaky control - and there’s Paul who can Heal just about any scrape the younger ones suffer when they don’t want to go to the Healers. But none of them can do what the others do.

“Maybe,” Pietro says, taking her hands. He can still feel, chasing out of the back of his skull, the blue-and-red bond to Wanda’s mind. “Maybe part of it is because of us anyway.”

Wanda looks into his eyes, senses his mind (he can  _ feel _ her there, a light touch like the trickle of warm blood over his skin from the time he’d run into a wall, but it’s oddly comforting), and nods. 

“We went through it together,” Wanda says. “And we are twins. We were already bound together one way. Our magic bound us another.”

  


* * *

  


It surprises no one that they get their letters. One of the other children their age - with magic but not strong or active enough for the Book and Quill of Hogwarts to note them - does not, but they, they do, and Wanda grasps Pietro’s hand with all her strength as they read.

  


* * *

  


“There are different Houses,” she says. “With different traits. We may be family, but I do not think we will go to the same House, even if we ask.”

Pietro’s hands are gentle around hers when she sets down her letter, fingertips tracing over hers, tapping like the games the toddlers play to improve their hand-eye coordination, but as quick as a darting dragonfly. “We can ask anyway,” he says. “We  _ will _ ask anyway. I do not want to be where I cannot protect you, cannot help you.”

Wanda’s eyes close, her head tilts forwards. “We ask,” she says. “They will sort you first.”

“Any House but Slytherin,” Pietro says. “Any House but the one that killed our parents.”

  


* * *

  


They sit together on the train. Wanda’s hand is on her wand, figuring out how to direct magic down it instead of simply out of her skin and down her sightlines as she ever has. Pietro leans lightly against her shoulder and watches, calm and content beside his sister.

_ We will be well _ , he thinks, watching Wanda charm an empty carton of pumpkin juice to dance over the seats.  _ I will keep Wanda safe, and Wanda will work even greater magic than before _ .

(Wanda’s mind is worried, but she cannot let Pietro fret now.)

  


* * *

  


“You’re an interesting one,” the Hat murmurs into Pietro’s ear. “An even split, you are, Hufflepuff or Gryffindor.”

_ I’m not interesting _ , Pietro thinks.  _ Wanda’s the interesting one, the powerful one, the clever one. I only protect her _ .

He can hear the Hat chuckling. “That doesn’t make you uninteresting. It makes you bold and brave and sometimes reckless and always loyal.”

Pietro doesn’t think of himself as brave. He isn’t brave for himself, at least. Only ever for Wanda. Wanda needs him to be sure and certain, takes her certainty of their safety from his calm, and he takes his calm from her wellbeing. A cycle of safety, created to keep Wanda safe.

“You are brave,” the Hat says, “and loyal too, terribly so. The work you put in, to keep your sister safe…”

_ I want, _ Pietro thinks,  _ to go into whatever House Wanda does. _

“But I don’t know her yet, even with this little-” something the Hat does echoes softly in the blue-and-red bond between his mind and Wanda’s. “You’re still distinct, yet. I can only know where  _ you _ might go, not your sister. So, Hufflepuff or Gryffindor. The heroes’ House or the loyal, hmm, hmm, hmm.”

_ Heroes can be loyal _ , Pietro thinks.  _ But not all who are loyal are heroes _ .

“Indeed,” the Hat says, and Pietro can hear the smile in it’s tone. “And if there is any House your sister can be certain to find you in, it is Hufflepuff. Helga herself said her House would take any who would not go elsewhere.”

_ Yes, _ Pietro thinks.  _ Let me go where Wanda can join me. I cannot leave her behind _ .

There is a sound, almost like a sigh, from the Hat. “Sometimes, to grow, you must leave people behind,” it says. “The Founders did, led by Gryffindor - led by those brave enough to take that path.” The hat pauses. It’s next words are quiet. “You could be brave enough.”

_ Brave enough to leave Wanda? _ Pietro thinks.  _ That isn’t bravery. That’s cowardice. _

The hat, again, sighs. “As you say,” it says, sounding almost sad. “You will find kin in  **_HUFFLEPUFF_ ** .”

  


* * *

  


There is something hopeful in Pietro’s smile to Wanda as he hops off the stool and darts - quick as ever - to the Hufflepuff table.  _ The House that takes all the rest _ , Wanda thinks. A House she could go to, if she resolutely refused all else.

“Maximoff, Wanda!” calls McGonagall.

Wanda makes her way to the stool.

  


* * *

  


“Slytherin,” the Hat murmurs to Wanda. “Or Ravenclaw. You have strength and drive, you understand people from your watching, know who to trust and who not to. You would do well in Slytherin.” 

Wanda’s mind thinks of the green-and-silver serpent of Slytherin, thinks of the silver-and-ivory masks of those who killed her parents.  _ No. _

“Ravenclaw then?” the Hat says. “You are clever enough, quick enough-”

_ I want my brother _ , Wanda thinks.  _ I want Hufflepuff _ .

“He is bold,” the Hat says. “And loyal. You are clever and driven, but his only purpose is you.” Wanda knows this already, knows this to be true. “I could Sort you there, but you would not be happy. You would not reach your potential. So. Slytherin,” the Hat asks. “Or Ravenclaw.”

_ I cannot be his purpose if he is in  _ **_Hufflepuff,_ ** Wanda thinks,  _ And I am elsewhere. I cannot help him, cannot protect him when his recklessness makes him forget to care about himself, I cannot leave him- _

“You cannot be his purpose if you are in Ravenclaw either,” the Hat says. “And you cannot protect him even if you are in Hufflepuff, because the world does not work that way. Things will always cause hurt and harm, no matter what people hope and plan. In Slytherin you could perhaps plan to protect him, learn to guide from a distance, but you cannot truly protect him from either House. Maybe it would be better for the both of you, to not be so bound to each other, better if you had things to research instead of fight for your brother-”

Wanda can feel the Hat, mouth stretching, voice about to call to all the hall and cannot let the Hat make her abandon her brother, deny his choice to protect her by sending her where she might read and learn and forget her brother.  _ Don’t hate me _ she thinks to her brother.

_ Slytherin _ she thinks to the Hat.  _ Sort me to Slytherin _ .

  


* * *

  


As Wanda is sorted into another house all Pietro can think is that he is hurtling, lost and alone, that he has lost his very purpose. He looks across the hall to Wanda, finds her where she is sat, meets her eyes.

Her gaze is certain. Her gaze is strong. Her gaze forgives him and asks forgiveness from him.

_ If I could have chosen to be with you _ , he can see her thinking _ , I would have.  _ He knows that, whatever the other option offered to her by the Hat, it was no option at all, if it made her chose Slytherin. Her eyes blink slowly as the thoughts register in his mind, calm agreement, complete acceptance.  _ If I could have chosen otherwise _ , he can feel her thinking,  _ I would have. I would rather be with you _ .

_ Trust _ , Pietro thinks, and,  _ Love _ , a bright blinding pulse of it so clear it makes Wanda smile. Out of her mind rise the words,  _ What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger _ .

Pietro anchors himself around those words. They are still twins. Even in different houses they are, at their core, the same. Halves of each other, bound to each other by magic and blood.

_ What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger _ .

  


* * *

  


  


**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments!


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